Alas At Last, Or On Tim's Difficulty

The palm of a hand
is a beautiful
tool of
slapping necessity.
A tool of meat
beating and bludgeoning.

She came whenever she could,
but Tim was a
different story.
Coming always felt natural when
the sun was setting,
but upon the rising was a completely
different story.

He wondered
what the sunsets and sunrises were.
How they would feel on a
day when coming felt natural.

Tim always laughed it off,
but thought hurt feelings later,
there was no way to moo
for the milk.
No way to trot
his trot.

She walked with him
into the woods
and tried to help him
find his way, but he came to no end.

Lungs gasp, hands grasp,
and they'd always end up talking philosophy,
about the ponies of Reggie from Cleveland,
how they surpassed his doppelganger in Philly,
and about how
Nietzsche was a treeloper,
a dangler of fire.

When Tim died,
she cried.
Then laughed and danced and
came as often as she wanted.

And the ash of Tim
was more exciting
than the palm of his hand.